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Mistman
It was late at night and my parents were not home. I was sitting at my computer doing what any other teenager would do on a Friday night. As I scrolled through my Facebook profile, I shoveled a handful of Cheetos into my mouth. I continue scrolling when I here my Bulldog, Buster, starting to bark. I yelled from my position, "Buster! Be quiet!" He continued to bark. I tried to ignore it, but it was quite the task. After about thirty minutes of Buster's mind-numbing barking, I went downstairs to check it out. Buster's front paws were firmly attached to the windowsill, his legs on a chair. I said his name, "Buster! Buster! Stop barking!" He didn't react. Knowing Buster is a sucker for bones, I went into the closet down the hall. I opened it up. Cereal? No. Cookies? No. Pasta? No. Aha! Here it is! I reached for the top shelf and grabbed the white, meat-smelling bone. I walked into the living room and said, "Buster! Look what I've got!" He turned around, looked at me, then resumed with his barking. Strange. These are Buster's favorite. I looked out the window to see what he was barking at. As my face pressed up against the glass, all I saw was darkness. For some reason, the street lights were off. All of them. It was pitch black out there, so I had no idea what the mutt was barking at. Giving up hope, I went back upstairs and resumed with my Facebook scrolling and Cheeto eating. About fifteen minutes after I checked on Buster, I heard a loud crying bark. I rushed down the stairs, jumping over the last few. I started calling Buster's name. "Buster? Buster! Buster!" As I hit the brakes when I reached the living room, my jaw dropped to the floor. The window was wide open and Buster was gone. There was blood smeared all over the chair and windowsill. On the window, I saw a hand-print. Not just any hand-print, but a hand-print that looked as if it had been branded on the window with a hot iron. Crying over the loss of my dog, I called the police. I was surprised they could tell what I was saying as I was crying my eyes out. The police arrived, along with my parents who tried to comfort me, but were also distraught. The police left after inspecting the scene and asking us a question. The police officer said he would contact us if he can find a lead in the case. I hobbled up to my bed and flopped face first onto the pillow, and cried myself to sleep. I was awoken up by a phone call. It got cut off midway. I think my parents answered it. After about three minutes of chatter, they came rushing up to my room, claiming that they had found Buster. We rushed to the scene and got out of out car, but our smiles quickly faded. About fifteen feet in front of us a bloody bulldog skin was in a heaping pile of bones, blood and organs. I had to choke back vomit. I realized it was Buster. My mom, furious, she went up to the police officer and yelled, "You said you found Buster!" the police officer replied, "Ma'am, I was going to tell you but you hung up mid-sentence." My mom and dad walked back to the car, and beckoned me to come. As I started to walk back to the car, I see something in the woods. It was a tall, dark figure waving at me. I can make out the smile. The figure grabbed a tree branch and snapped it, then walked away into the woods. I went to go investigate it. I could here the confused calls from my parents as I walked to the woods. They stopped calling, probably figuring that I needed space. when I got to where the mysterious figure had been standing, all that was there was a burning branch, snapped in half and a bloodstained note. I picked up the note and it read, "Buster was a good dog... Was." Horrified, I ran back to get my parents, but all I could make out in the mysterious mist that had just rolled in was about eight figures above ground level, and one figure standing on the ground. I went over to the figures, but when I got closer, the figure that was standing simply vanished. I walked towards where he was and looked up. I nearly puked. My parents and six cops were dangling from ropes attached to a tree, strung up by their necks. I started to cry, and ran away. As I began to run, I tripped over something. It was a metal canister with a lid. I opened it and inside was a note with a black hand-print on the corner. The note read, "Sweet dreams. -The Mistman." Category:Dismemberment Category:Beings